Undertaker
by Toxxic-Lover
Summary: A blueblooded mortician in the highblood's service is immortal. She embalms the highblood's favorite kills for trophies. She's tired of it. So when the Sufferer comes to lay on her table, she decides to do something terrible, and extremely risky. OCxOC
1. The Legend of the UnderTaker

'_She serves the highbloods, you know. She embalms their favorite kills so that they may keep them as trophies for years and years.'_

'_Do they ever rot?'_

'_I don't think so… they say she embalmed her matesprit from a hundred years ago and that he's still perfectly preserved in her private morgue.'_

'_Her matesprit?'_

'_Yes. They felt red for each other before she discovered her immortality. They say that he died in a fight and that she retrieved his body before it was devoured. She embalmed him in secret. It wasn't long after that the highbloods requested her service. You see, before that she embalmed lusii that young trolls couldn't bear to part with.'_

'_But now she works for them? Talk about a change in work.'_

'_Not really, she still embalms and that's all she cares about.'_

'_Weird'_

'_Yeah. Even weirder, she wears this gas mask. She keeps, like, dead rats and things in it, because she can't stand any smell but the smell of death.'_

'_That…That's disgusting!"_

Dead eyes swept over the body of the mutant as he was laid on her table.

One of the two green bloods who brought in the body began to speak to her.

"Now, UnderTaker, the Grand Highblood—"

"Leave!" Her glove hand whipped towards the door in a hasty gesture as she hissed her command. Both pages yelped at the sound of her death-rattle like voice and scrambled over each other to get out the door. Her hand lowered as the door slammed shut and the pages' hasty footsteps faded. The tank on her back made a terrible hiss as she took a deep breath through her mask. She walked over to the table and stared at the blood pooling around the Sufferer's wrists. She picked up a scalpel and slid off one of her gloves. With a quick motion she cut open her palm and her dark blue blood dripped down to mix with his. She hesitantly used her still-gloved hand to mix the colors more thoroughly. A beautiful purple shade sprung up under her fingers. She sighed and wrapped her cut hand in gauze before replacing her glove. She turned to her assistant and nodded to him.

"Bring the syringe." She rattled, "It's time to begin…" She looked back at the corpse of the only other troll who had shared her matesprit's mutant blood.


	2. No one ever pries

The door to the dark embalming room slammed open as an armored foot kicked it. A large, armored troll walked in, a body over his shoulder, and a body in his hand. He shuddered before walking in. The things I do for hire, He thought. He shook his head and carefully made his way through the shelves of bodies to the embalming table in the center. He froze as he saw a sickly, neon green-blood slowly rinsing silvery blue blood into the drain. The troll looked up at him, his face gaunt as a skeleton and just as pale as one, too, except for the dried green blood-trails that snaked from the corners of his mouth and eyes down to his chin. His dull, foggy eyes examined the indigo-blooded mercenary with slow, calculating sweeps. Then he turned off the water and put the hose away. His every movement slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Though, the warrior thought he looked like he could just fall over dead any second. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the troll was dead already. Even his Ibex-like horns looked faded.

The frail green-blood held up one gloved finger and rasped, "I will go get the UnderTaker. You stay right there, Mr. WarHorse…" He turned, and only when his face was hidden, could the Warhorse look down at the rest of him. He looked like a skeleton under black clothing. His shirt was long-sleeved and the forearms were tucked into black leather gloves. He shuddered again. Everything about this place was unnatural. Trolls were meant to be left in the woods to be eaten when they died. Every troll here was to be turned into a trophy. He looked around slowly at the bodies and chewed his lip, wishing they'd hurry. He jerked his head at the familiar sound of bagged money hitting a table. A female troll stood there in a skintight dress that reached her feet. Her dress was long sleeved and, like the sickly one he saw earlier, the sleeves were tucked into black gloves. A dark blue sash and belt held many sinister looking syringes and knifes and who knows what those tools even were. He dared to look up at her face and was shocked to see that it was mostly covered with a gas mask. All he could see were dead eyes, eyes that looked exactly like the eyes of the bodies he was carrying.

"Good job, Mr. WarHorse…" The troll, the UnderTaker, hissed through her mask. If the Warhorse had thought the other's voice was scary, hers was downright terrifying. Her hisses acted like a syringe that impaled his spine and injected pure, freezing poison. He swallowed and had to remind himself that she was lower on the hemospectrum than he was. He was a highblood, damn it. But she spoke again and he nearly felt like cowering, "Seems my Collector did a good job picking you for this job… As promised, here is your payment on the table here." She motioned to the bag on the table behind her and sat on a stool. The Collector stood on the other side of the bag. The WarHorse had the sudden feeling of being surrounded and eyed them suspiciously.

The Collector spoke this time, "Don't fear. We only want the bodies..." The armored troll slowly set the bodies down and kept flicking his eyes between them as he approached the table. He reached out and snatched the bag, then quickly stepped back. The UnderTaker chuckled at him, the sound following him as he quickly left.

The Collector sighed heavily, "He didn't ask for information on the red-blood, that's good…"

The UnderTaker snickered, "Of course he didn't. No one ever pries into our duties, not even the high-bloods…" She motioned for him to pick up a body, "Let's get to work."


	3. The Awakening of the Martyr

"It's worked, UnderTaker. He has a pulse again." Cold, gloved fingers removed themselves from his neck's pulse point.

"Oh, good. Go get his clothes, then."

Raspy voices echoed about the room. He could still feel his wounds, though the pain was much less. He still felt paralyzed. He could feel the cold metal table beneath him. A heavy door opened and shut nearby.

A cough-like chuckle rung out beside him, "Welcome back to the world of the living, my dear martyr..." Red eyes flickered open, then shut tightly at a bright light above him.

"Don't open your eyes yet. Focus on getting the rigor mortis out of your limbs." Someone shuffles about him, and he can hear the jingling of many heavy tools being shut away. Carefully he tried to twitch his fingers, and slowly they obeyed. He continued this up his arms until he could roll his shoulders. Then he worked on his legs. The female, well he assumed the troll speaking to him was female, moved the light away from his eyes and he slowly opened his eyes only to look straight into the eyes of death.

The Sufferer scrambled away and backed up, "Y-You...I-I thought you were a myth...!"

The UnderTaker smiled, though with her mask, he could see nothing but emotionless, dead eyes, "A myth, a legend...a night terror only told to grubs to keep them from rebelling as you did... No, my dear martyr. I am very much real." She folded her arms before her.

The Sufferer hesitated, but slowly rose out of his defensive stance, "Why am I...alive...?"

"Because I brought you back. I am on your side." She held her hand out, "I am tired of all this...my name is Ureski, though I prefer Undertaker."

He looked at her hand and hesitantly shook it, "Ureski...Sounds like a name from tales of the old days..."

She nodded, "I am very old, my dear martyr." She let go of his hand and looked up at her assistant as he came in, "Oh, good. Bring him his clothes, then."

The Sufferer looked down as he suddenly remembered his lack of any clothes and covered himself. The UnderTaker laughed, "Don't worry, I've seen many naked bodies in my time. Though up until now all of them were cold and rigid."

The Collector snorted, "Oh, so I'm cold and rigid?" He chuckled as he handed the Sufferer his clothes.

She rolled her eyes, "You're so freaking self-conscious you never take off all your clothes any time we pail." She teased him, "So it doesn't count."

The Sufferer smiled a little at them as he finished clothing himself, "You two are..."

"Matesprits." The Undertaker nodded, "Shocked?"

He shook his head, "Only a little." His face changed to a concerned one. "I have to get back to my people..."

The UnderTaker shook her head, "First you have to eat. Don't worry, your people are hiding safe and sound with the Fated. I wish I could say as much for your disciple and your moirail..." She put a hand on his shoulder and led him to a separate room.

"Wait, the Fated? Why are they with them?" The Sufferer was horrified that they would take shelter with them. The Fated were a group of trolls that believed in equality of trolls, but still insisted on a hierarchy. In his opinion that would only lead to corruption and more death.

"Because the Fated are all they have left." She narrowed her eyes at him, "And I am one of them." She pushed him down into a chair and pointed at a plate of food on the table, "Eat."

The Sufferer sighed and looked at the food. Seemed like he'd have to comply. He owed these trolls his life. He started eating as he was told. The UnderTaker watched for a moment, then turned to her matesprit, muttering something to him. He nodded and grabbed a cloak before heading out.

"Where is he going...?"

She smiled, "To bring good tidings to The Ursurper herself."


	4. Silent Rising

Chapter Four: Silent Rising

A troll with pinkish-lavender blood looked over the sheltering low and mid-bloods from her hive's balcony. She sighed and walked down to go walk among them. Her Fated weaved among them, tending to their wounds and bring them food. She put a hand on a tired looking Fated and took over his job after telling him to rest. She fixed food and brought it out to the would-be-culled trolls. As she bent down to help replace a troll's bandages, the wounded troll gasped and froze, her eyes fixated on something behind the high-blood. The lavender blood would have thought the other had seen death itself. But she knew who it was behind her and smiled.

"Hello, Collector." The she-troll finished and stood up, turning to look at the bright green-blood, "I hope you bring good news."

"I do, Usurper. The deed is done. He is being tended to by my matesprit."

"Can she make the journey well, or should I send some of my people back with you?" She motioned to him in a friendly way for him to follow as she walked back to her hive.

"She's stubborn, you know that. She's told me not to go back. Plus, she has to make the distraction so that _he_ may escape unnoticed." He bowed his head, still covered by the hood. His skin was so pigment-less, he'd get burned even by the light of the now-rising sun. He'd traveled all night.

The Usurper nodded sadly, "Do you _wish_ to return to her to help?" He looked up at him, but received a shake of the head.

"She would kick my ass if I offered anything of the sort." He laughed.

"That stubborn old goat." She laughed as well, rolling her eyes as she opened the door and let him in. He stepped over the refugees inside and followed her to the stairs. Once the door to the study was shut, they spoke in hushed tones.

"Is he really safe? No one has suspected him or UnderTaker?" She shut the window.

"Yes. No one would dare interfere with Lady Death herself…though I worry. The Grand Highblood acts suspicious…He never stays long when he comes to ask, but his visits are frequent enough. With my absence he'll get even more suspicious."

"She would do well to get out of there with him, soon…My Fated are loosing their faith. The Sufferer was the only one who kept them going and his execution rattled them to the bones. Many have left me. Too many of these trolls are second guessing themselves. They need their risen martyr." She stared out the window, "Else we may all lose… We have the forces…"

"But we lack the willpower." The Collector finished for her, "We will succeed, Usurper. I promise you this." He reached forward and gripped his Moirail's shoulder. She smiled back at him.

"Of all the people we've lost, I'm glad you still stay with me."

"I'm your Moirail. I could never leave you. You and UnderTaker are the only people who have kept me sane through everything I've been through." He motioned to himself and the obvious sickness that scarred his body and dulled his eyes. "The least I can do is return the favor."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"…" The Sufferer watched UnderTaker as she stared at the ceiling, listening. Her hand hovered over her weapons. A loud crash had sounded from above them earlier and UnderTaker had shoved the mutant blood into a hiding place. Half an hour passed before the UnderTaker hesitantly walked over to the hiding place and motioned for him to come out, "What was that…?" He asked.

"It's best you don't ask. But it seems you'll have to leave early." She grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the 'work room'-as UnderTaker called it-and into the hive in the back. Her dead, but suddenly alert, eyes kept flicking to the ceiling before she pushed him through the front door and outside. Her low hiss of a voice dropped even lower as she whispered, "Follow the cliffs. Stay out of view of the ocean." She wrapped a cloak around him, "Once you're in the mountains, find a Fated and show your blood." She paused and set her hands on his shoulders, "As much as I hate to send you on your own…" She sighed, making her tank hiss, "Be safe. You're all we have left."

The Sufferer smiled, "I will. And thank you. I owe you my life."

She smiled back, tilting her head. He knew she was smiling under the mask just because of the small movement*, "Your life means nothing to me. But it means the universe to the trolls in the mountains. I suggest you hurry." She patted his back, and the two trolls parted ways.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

*The Collector, being her matesprit, knows her mood just by her eyes and odd body language. The Sufferer figured this out after a week spent with her.


End file.
